


The Betrayer

by shootingdaggers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aurors, Bad Romance, Bellatrix Lestrange - Freeform, Bellatrix/Rufus, Death Eaters, F/M, Forbidden Romance, Rufus Scrimgeour - Freeform, Slytherin, unhappy ever after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 09:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16216103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shootingdaggers/pseuds/shootingdaggers
Summary: A childhood betrayal fuels Rufus' drive for vengeance, but at what cost?





	The Betrayer

**Author's Note:**

> Rufus / Bellatrix
> 
> Written for Sing-Me-A-Rare Vol.2. Much love to my Alpha who shall remain nameless for the moment.
> 
> Song Prompt - HEAVY IN YOUR ARMS - FLORENCE AND THE MACHINE

  

 

 

 

The mangy old hat dangles over his head.

Rufus looks up, squinting at the wrinkled brown edges. A thousand pairs of eyes stare at him expectantly. He’s never liked attention and he certainly doesn’t appreciate it now, when so much rides on one simple choice.

When the hat touches his temples, it springs to life.

“Valour runs in your veins,” a voice murmurs, one only he can hear. Rufus’ knuckles are white as he grips the stool: he’d hate to look a fool on his first day by jumping out of his skin. “You’re an interesting one—ambitious—resourceful—a survivor… you’d achieve greatness in any house, but there’s something about you…”

_Slytherin!_

Rufus blinks. The first Scrimgeour in a century to be sorted into the house of Salazar stands from the chair and ambles his way over towards the gaggle of sullen-looking students who applaud his choosing. It’s as though they’re covered in a mist—their corner of the great hall hums with a different energy, like venomous creatures waiting in the dark, fully aware of how dangerous they are.

A girl cackles to his right as he sits down nervously on the edge of the Slytherin’s bench. Not just any cackle—literally throws her head back, mouth open to the overcast ceiling, and laughs at the clouds.

For a moment, he stalls, forgetting the queue of nervous students waiting to be told their fate for the next seven years. He’s transfixed by her immediately; she’s beautiful in the sort of way power allures men or the sirens called sailors to their death—her hair sits wild and curly around her shoulders, her brown eyes flash brightly at those in her company. She has a ring on each finger and her wrists clatter with ancient-looking silver bracelets.  Everything about her screams _excess_.

She suits the green tapestries above, like she belongs in the colour. When she turns to survey the new Slytherin arrivals he shrinks against her gaze—alert and alive as a cheetah, waiting for the slightest twitch of its prey. Rufus looks down at his hands, realises they’ve been twisting his robes for the last ten minutes. What would his mother say? Not only has he been sorted into the one house his family hadn’t anticipated, but he’s a crumpled mess. He glances up again but the girl’s back chattering with her friends—two boys with heavy brows, and a quiet brunette with a stoic face but the same nose as the wild one.

Sisters, though at a glance one would never know it.

Two more students traipse up to the dais and have their houses declared. The new Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw scuttle to their prospective benches with huge sighs of relief. It’s an emotion Rufus knows all too well, yet somehow sitting amongst vipers isn’t as settling as knowing his house should be.

With a collective breath, the students next to him still and grip each other as a blonde girl steps up to sit beneath the hat. It barely touches her head.

_SLYTHERIN!_

Wild Girl whoops with her friends and punches her fist to the air, applauds and welcomes the new addition—Cissy, judging from the wild girl’s cooing—to the fold. The quiet brunette remains seated, almost disappointed. Did she expect something else? A loud voice declares the Blacks are back, and the table dissolves into laughter. Somehow Rufus can’t shake the notion this whole house will be his family—a very odd family—through everything. Eating, sleeping, laughing, it will all be done in the presence of the same people.

As the sisters gather in a trio at the benches, Rufus receives a poke to his side.

“Shove up.” A boy with curly brown hair has been sorted into Slytherin too but he doesn’t look all too happy about it. “Lestrange.” He introduces himself without manners. Rufus’ mother would have his tongue if he ever dared be so casual, but he’s a Slytherin now. He can probably keep it curt.

“Belmaris,” Rufus introduces himself, since they’re going by last names. The other boy squints—he’s got a strong brow, square nose, like it’s been punched several times already.

“Belmaris… never heard of that family.”

That, of course, is the whole point. Rufus’ mother advised him so many times to enter Hogwarts as an anonymous boy would be a gift—to carry the name Scrimgeour in the very halls his great-grandfather walked would carry attention as well as a reputation. No, his mother said, it would be best if Rufus starts to build his own.

Rufus stabs a potato, innocent, and shoves it into his mouth so his next words are spoken around it. “Should you have?”

Ideally the boy will say ‘nope’ and carry on with his meal. Instead, Lestrange eyes him with suspicion and raises a goblet of juice in toast. “To new Slytherins.”

Rufus raises his own goblet but pauses as Wild Girl catches his eye further down the row: her friend’s conversation goes unheard as she shoots him a smirk. The rest of the room may as well blur into obscurity. Energy seeps from her, drawing him to her like wind through a tunnel.

It takes until midnight to shake away the feeling.

_My love has concrete feet_

_My love’s an iron ball_

_Wrapped around your ankles_

_Over the waterfall_

 

Winter falls quicker in his third year—a frost settles on the windows and the grounds outside glimmer with tiny diamonds that sparkle as Rufus makes his descent into the common room. Rufus finds his favourite spot empty as usual—a chair in the corner, away from the others—and watches the shimmer of the lake. It’s almost the holidays, and while he looks forward to time spent at home (letters from his mother prove interesting since his introduction to Slytherin) part of him will miss the murmur of housemates in the common room.

He’ll miss _her._

It’s her final year, and somehow Rufus finds himself following her round the castle to savour the moments. She’s never been that nice to him. Bellatrix Black—her name’s scarred into his mind so much that even thinking about her gives him a shiver--either ignores him or taunts him. One day he could be her new toy, the next he might as well not exist.

Bellatrix’s taunting is much better than the cold stares shot straight through him. Right now she’s busy near the fireplace, her delicate feet not-so-delicately shoved near the flames and completely overtaking every inch of room. The Lestrange brothers flank her sides, while Cissy reads beside her. She’s a Queen holding court and the rest of the room revolves around her.

All bar Andromeda, who finds Rufus in his nook, staring from beneath his messy blonde hair as usual. She takes a seat next to him as though they have a friendship--perhaps they do, in their own strange way. She’s always been there, a constant support when Rufus’ been alone. But he’s hardly had to return the kindness.

“I’d encourage you to hold back your high regard,” she murmurs.

“Pardon?” Rufus squeaks.

“You’re a good soul, Rufus. Quiet, clever. Be careful who you’re planning to impress.”

There’s a beat before Rufus scoffs. “Slytherins don’t need to impress anyone.” But that’s not quite true: ever since he got sorted into this damned house he’s wanted to be noticed by her.

“The Slytherin Queen will never like you the way you want her to.” The Black sisters share the same ability of making people feel like they’re being read, and it’s obvious how Meda’s eyes soften that she feels intrusive.

“I’m just trying to get into her good books before she leaves. That’s all.”

“You’ll figure it out eventually,” Meda murmurs. Something about Meda always exudes sadness, the way her eyes scan the sea of green-clad people, as though they’re beyond helping. “Slytherin isn’t about using others, or a hierarchy, or the few elite above the many. It’s about the strength inside. The length you’re willing to go to do what you believe is right, for yourself or others. The resources, the voice inside of you telling you to survive, it’s about _instinct._ But try telling _them_ that and you’ll be imperius’d over a cliff.”

Rufus’ mouth twitches in a smile: she’s right, of course. The forgotten Black sister may fade into the background but her understanding of those around her is an asset they foolishly underestimate. Slytherin is much more than the traits Bellatrix seems to hold dear, but that won’t get her attention.

Torn between the desire to have Bellatrix look upon him favourably and becoming the best Slytherin he can be, Rufus runs a hand over his face. As Meda shifts, a letter flutters from her sleeve to the floor. Rufus picks it up before she can snatch it back, but two words strike him immediately.

_Love Ted_

Ted Tonks’ handwriting scrawls across the page: Rufus and Meda’s eyes meet. He’s never seen a Black sister nervous before, but there’s an urgency in her gaze. It’s no big deal, though, really—it’s only _Ted,_ the stuffy fifth-year Hufflepuff with the floppy hair and goofy smile.

Slow as sunrise, realisation dawns.

_Ted’s a mudblood._

“Please don’t tell them,” Meda whispers. It doesn’t take a genius to know she means her sisters. If they found out—heck if any of Slytherin found out, her life would be made a living hell.

Deciding then to follow a path that proves himself a better one, Rufus nods once. “You have my word.”

It’s not an idle thing coming from him, and Meda shows her understanding with a nod of her head. She scurries away from him, as though he might change his mind. After all, his heritage is not as clear as most Slytherins would like. He wonders idly whether it’s always been like this in the house--that blood means more than the bonds of friendship, than character, than honour. Perhaps he should have been placed in Hufflepuff after all…

But there was a reason the hat placed him here. That hat knows more than it lets on, can probably see the future better than any scryer or fortune teller. If the Dark Lord wasn’t stirring the masses, perhaps it would be different in Slytherin. Perhaps he’d find he fit in better.

Rufus rubs his hair free and wild over his face. It’s all angles at the moment but he’s got the look of his father, and his father before him.  When he hits seventeen he’ll have the Scrimgeour features once and for all. He’s already fitting in, he muses-he’s deceiving everyone by omitting his family name.

The room grows too hot, too gloomy. Rufus pushes himself from the chair. He needs air. He needs… he’s not sure what he needs. But he won’t find it in the common room with a thousand eyes staring at him, even if Bellatrix has sloped off somewhere else.

It’s a paranoia he’s not used to -- he knows it’s rubbish. No way are people staring at him, whispering, because nobody really looks at him the way he does: a deceiver, a man who hides behind masks rather than telling people who he really is.

_Perhaps i’m a born Slytherin after all._

A wall of hissing voices stops him in his tracks: he’s just about to head up to the main stairs within the castle but in the corner, where an old classroom lies beyond repair, two voices filter out into the quiet.

“We need to perfect it!”

“When we’ve graduated. There’s only a few months left, it’s too risky here.”

“Rubbish! How are we going to join him if we can’t perform a basic curse? He’ll laugh at us. We’ll be _nothing._ ” An inhale. “I can’t be nothing to him.”

“Bea—you’re not nothing to _me_ …”

There’s a scoff, and Rufus feels a pang of unease for the boy who’s just been rejected so harshly. It’s only when birds flutter in the rafters and the two students look up to the sound that Rufus knows one of them is Bellatrix—shafts of sunlight illuminate the soft angles of her face, but he’d recognise the curve of that neck anywhere, the way her lips part in surprise but her brows furrow into a glower.

He’s stared too long. Bellatrix cuts her gaze to where he stands, a wolf-like smile spreads on her lips.

_I made her smile._

A thrill runs through him as she steps forwards. Behind her stands Rodolphus, looking just as annoyed as any other time in the castle.

“Little Belmaris!” Bella coos. “What are you doing wandering?”

He shrugs, stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Had to get out of the common room.”

There’s something like curiosity on her face that she washes away with a smirk. “Meda depressing you with her melancholy? _Slytherin isn’t made to be what you want it, Bella,_ ” she mocks, putting on her sister’s tone perfectly. “ _Slytherin is a house of virtue if you look at it correctly, you’re being awful Bella, be kind to mudbloods.”_

Rodolphus guffaws and Bellatrix rounds on him. “I mock my sister for my amusement, not yours.” When he mutters an apology she turns, venom receding from her features. “What do you think, Belmaris?”

“Of… what?”

“Mudbloods.”

Rodolphus slides to her side, whispering into her ear. Clearly they were having a private moment and it was interrupted too soon by his view. “Why do you care what he thinks, Bea?”

“He’s a Slytherin. We give him a courtesy.” She leans against the wall, ringlets of hair cascading around her shoulders. Her cat-like eyes narrow in Rufus’ direction more out of curiosity than suspicion. “Well?”

“Do you mean… in the context of the rumours going on outside?”

“Outside?”

“Voldemort.”

Bellatrix raises her head, hooded eyes beaming with pride. “The man I’ve seen with my own two eyes deserves his title of _Lord_ , Rufus Belmaris. Doesn’t he Dolph?”

Rodolphus’ face doesn’t change, but he murmurs an affirmative.

Rufus swallows. “I’m not… I couldn’t say. I don’t really know of what’s going on out there. Ma never tells me much.”

“Then allow me to enlighten you, little Belly.” She flicks out her wand and Rufus flinches, but her arm extends in a graceful arc around his shoulders-- _oh dear Merlin she’s touching him_ \--and brings him close to her side. “Walk with me. Dolph, go play with Bast a while.”

Dismissed, the overgrown oaf wanders off with his knuckles hanging limply by his sides. Rufus’ neck feels hot, his cheeks flushed, as thoughts of dead rats and other non-excitable things rush through his head in desperation.

“Saying the Dark Lord’s name doesn’t fuss you, does it?” Bellatrix asks first. That certainly takes the edge off.

He shrugs. “Not really.”

“Lord Voldemort is a name you shouldn’t mention outside Slytherin walls.” She’s barely a head taller than him, he’ll be above her by the end of the year judging from his growth spurt, but the way her hair tangles around his face makes him want to stay this height forever. “Allies are hard to come by. My sister, sweet and dull as she is, doesn’t quite understand like the rest of us. His power is unrivalled. He knows the importance of keeping things _pure._ ”

Beside him, her wand sparks to life and she draws a little snake in the air. Rufus smiles at it, and Bellatrix smiles at _him_.

“Power flows better if we’re worthy. After seventh year and its stupid, meaningless exams, I’ll be in the presence of someone who knows what _real_ power is. Don’t you want that?”

There’s never been a question of what power is in Rufus’ mind: ability and control, two sides of the same coin. One is natural, a good force. The other corrupts. He’s been quite happy with that understanding until now, when she dangles a little extra wisdom on the end of a string.

“Have you seen it?” he asks. “Real power.”

Bellatrix quietens as they reach a portion of the castle where the windows are level with the lake. It’s as though they stand on the water, impervious to its sinking depths.

“No,” she whispers. “But I’ve felt it.” It’s not what Rufus expects: her jovial mask drops, the need to impress completely gone. Looking at her expression as she watches her reflection in the water, it’s as though the person she was a moment ago has walked off to play with selkies.

“Though of course I’ll see it soon enough.” The wild one returns, inhabits Bellatrix with a smile. “I have big plans when I’m out of here. Mark my words, Rufus Belmaris. You could be part of it too, you know. I’ve seen your grades.”

Rufus stares at her, not quite sure of what to say, so instead his chin wags with the effort of thought. “I… always thought of becoming an Auror.” It’s an honourable profession, one he’s toyed with for a while, ever since he saw what was going on in the world outside.

Bella quirks her lips as she considers him. “An auror? Interesting. Perfecting your spells, chasing ‘bad wizards’?” Rufus nods, enthusiastic, but her laugh sucks his eagerness dry. “Auror’s just a bad wizard with a licence. You’d be much better serving the greater challenge we face. You’d be much better following Him.”

It’s never even crossed his mind to follow Lord Voldemort. Not in a thousand years. But the infection of Slytherins’ emerald children is a hard one to beat, and he’s seen many of his friends bend to the will of the elder few seeking power.

His hesitation earns him a closer look. She leans in, dark eyes full of fire. “I know you watch me. I sense it.”

If the ground could open now it would be a brilliant thing. Rufus flushes bright red, shying away.

“I mean it as a compliment. A hunter always knows when it’s being hunted by an equal. You’d do well to choose a side that hones those talents. The hat chose you for Slytherin for a reason. Though, I’m sure he wondered about Gryffindor.” She smiles at him, plays with a strand of his lion’s mane hair. Rufus barely manages to resist a shiver at her touch. “I never asked you, Rufus. But since you and darling Meda were getting so close, earlier, won’t you tell me more about your family? I would so love to know… the Belmaris clan are so secretive, but then most Welsh families are, I suppose.”

“I’m not known by Belmaris usually,” Rufus says. It’s a mistake - even as he says it he can hear his mother’s voice in the back of his mind, screaming at him in a warning. The former headmaster was a good man in Hogwarts, but a Scrimgeour in Slytherin? In _these_ times?

Still, his grandfather was important. He held clout. The name is recognised all over, even Bellatrix wouldn’t escape it.

“Oh?” she asks, lowering her hand from his hair.”And what might you be known as usually?”

Rufus stands taller. “Scrimgeour.”

For a moment Bellatrix’s eyes widen in recognition, but it falls a moment later. “Welsh and Scottish, goes back centuries, four Ministers and one Headmaster.”

“Yes, you… seem to know a lot about family lines.”

“Oh, Rufus.” Bellatrix says his first name like its a poem in and of itself. “You don’t know the half.”

 

<<>>

 

Warmth strips from him at midnight.

In a half daze, Rufus pats around him for the sheets to find nothing but his pyjamas holding in body heat. He lifts his head, groggy with sleep. The room is devoid of his roommates, probably dispersed to the common room or beyond, and in the darkness stands five brooding figures, all wrapped up in cloaks. A candle flickers its last attempt at life and illuminates two men’s eyes: the older Lestrange holds his wand high as the other face, lip curled.

“Mudblood,” spits Rodolphus.

There’s a spark. Rufus screams so loud his voice cracks and his throat aches. Every muscle aches for relief, for mercy, for death. All too soon the room goes silent, laughter as the only sound he hears. Somewhere he knows they’ve silenced him--taken his voice so nobody in the castle will hear. His mind screams while his voice can’t, time spinning into nothing.

“Stop.”

Finally he can breathe again. Rufus rasps air into his lungs, feeling aged all at once. His eyes search, wild, for his saviour, every nerve trembling.

Bellatrix watches him from the corner, expression grim. His traitorous hand reaches out to her, flexing as though she’d take it and tell him it was all going to be okay.

“Let’s go. You’ve got the hang of it.” She directs this towards Rodolphus yet watches Rufus’ chest heave on the bed.

_Betrayed._

As the hooded figures leave him, Rufus trembles in place. He searches Bellatrix’s eyes that hold no light inside them--and as she turns her back on him, his heart sinks into despair.

 

_And is it worth the wait_

_All this killing time?_

_Are you strong enough to stand_

_Protecting both your heart and mine?_

 

It’s no longer a search for the light that calls him to the life of an Auror.

Dark times call for a Slytherin mind: Rufus may be young but he’s seen, and experienced, and done so much more than many would believe. Age lines his face beyond his youth, though his mother still says he bears a young man’s spirit. This night it’s heavy, weighed down by a task over ten years in the making.

He’s sniffed her out. Followed her until the end of the earth and back around twice. Every time he gets close to her, every time he wraps his net around her, she cuts herself free.

But not before showing him her teeth.

Now she’s here, barricaded into the smallest hovel in Cork she could lure him to. Because that’s all it is - a lure. She’s left him gifts along the way, invitations to search for her. It’s a game to Bellatrix Lestrange, the woman who took his name and used it for her own gain all those nights ago.

She wanted an army. She gained an enemy.

Her laugh barks against the night. He’s shot off six spells already, all expertly reflected straight back at him. It’s less cat and mouse, more hawk versus falcon - both hunting, both playing, both eager.

But she’s the one in the shadows.

Rufus leans against the wall, wand raised. He has few tricks left, ones learned the hard way. She’ll learn them the hard way too.

“You’re one to hold a grudge, aren’t you poppet?” she coos, but her tone is lead. The years have hardened her, sealed a case around her childlike glee. She’s a woman now, and a deadly one.

Bellatrix Lestrange has become a master in her own right, despite her blind adoration.

Rufus sees _very_ clearly.

“Let’s settle this,” Rufus calls. He needs to keep his wits about him, but the scent of her wafts through the corridor. “You need to answer for your crimes.”

“Crimes against whom?”

“Every decent witch and wizard you’ve murdered!” he barks, but he shouldn’t. It gives her fuel, and her hum of pleasure shivers through him. Knuckles whiten around his wand as he presses the back of his head against the wall, counting moments between his breath.

“It’s such a shame, Scrimgeour, that your blood is tainted. You could have been so…”

He strikes. Gold sparks beside her and she shrieks, off-guard. Her retaliation misses by inches, sparking above his head as he lunges around the corner and knocks her from her feet.

Her wand’s cast from her hand as the other swipes for him, growls and snarls cast like animals at each other.

A binding spell pins her against the wall easily. No matter how hard she struggles, he knows how to make it stick. Make it hurt, as though real ropes tugged against her arms.

“You’re enjoying this,” she whispers, stilling for a moment. And it’s only as he looks at her he realises the edge of a smile curls at his mouth.

It’s gone in an instant. “Murderer.”

“As are you.” Bellatrix forces an exhausted grin onto her face. “I knew you’d see it one…”

The spell hits her before he knows what he’s done. She screams, binding spell undone, but she doesn’t run.

People don’t tend to during Crucio.

He stops once, lets her catch her breath. Chastises himself for thinking how beautiful she looks. Her chuckle brings him to his senses.

“You betrayed me.”

He hurts her again, and again, and each time she laughs he wishes it would stop—he doesn’t want her to live through it—doesn’t want her to enjoy it—but a sliver of lust rushes through him.

_Conquerer._

For a second the word ignites him, and his wand draws more pain from her nerves. This time her scream isn’t punctuated by laughter. Rufus stops in surprise, wand loose in his hand.

That was real pain. Bellatrix exhales, gazing at him through hooded eyes. The barest smile graces her full lips. “I told you,” she coos. “Auror’s just a bad wizard with a licence.”

Her mouth finds his—or his mouth finds hers—he’s too dizzy to know which. All he knows is her lips feel hot, and wet, and _right_. A clatter sounds as his wand drops to the floor and he’s lost, arms wrapped around her, reaching into her curls. Scents of sandalwood and moss overwhelm him. Her fingers lace a crown around his neck and she laughs against his mouth.

 

<<>>

 

Rain spatters the window.

It does little to calm Rufus as he lies beneath the sheets of their stolen bedroom, the latest in a countless line of battles. It’s a fight they always lose.

This time it’s a small house is nestled at the tip of the Shetland isles, open to the elements berating it without care. The woman he’s supposed to kill sits watching the storm. She’s like a tempest herself - all rage and fury, until it blends into something else. Something consuming.

“My heart’s too heavy for you to carry,” she whispers. The curve of her back silhouettes against the morning light as she faces away from him. “I’ll weigh you down.”

Her confession gives Rufus pause—such revealing words have never fallen from her lips before. Rufus’ hand reaches out to stroke against her waist, her bare skin cool to the touch. “You will never weigh me down.”

Bellatrix shrugs away and Rufus touches air as she stands from the bed. The mask slips back into place as she turns to him; she has a look of Narcissa, self-assured and regal that seems misplaced somehow. In all the time Rufus has known her—and loved her—the wild one has never worn a porcelain expression, but she does now.

“This is to be our last encounter.” So formal, so stiff. She bends to retrieve a robe and slips it over her skin like it’ll be her armour. _A soldier before battle._

Rufus frowns. “What is he making you do?”

“Don’t speak of him.”

“Bella…”

It might be his imagination but she hesitates—only slightly—as she ties the sash around her waist. “Mistakes are corrected, Scrimgeour. If you’re the praying type, send a word up that yours might go unnoticed.”

 

<<>>

 

As he sleeps, he dreams of her - her dark eyes brim with tears as her fingertips caress his temples. It’s so vivid he can smell her, the scent of the sea and September rain--but it’s broken by the undercurrent of pain, sweat and fear.

“Bella?” he murmurs.

“Sssh.” Her whisper comes thick, as though her throat is tight. As he tries to rise she stops him, gently pushing her weight onto his chest. “It’ll all be over soon.”

A calmness overtakes him. His vision swims. If it’s to be over he doesn’t want to leave without saying it. Illuminated in a green glow, she watches him carefully as he raises his head to meet hers.

“I love you.” The words are forced through his mouth. Bella’s soft eyes widen, and all too quickly the softness is replaced by a hard shell.

“Your first mistake,” comes her voice, and he’s plunging deep into the recesses of his mind, spinning into webs of her weaving.

The house stands in front of him, three heartbeats inside. He wants to call for help but all too soon he’s rushing backwards, away from the house, down the overgrown path, through the front gate---he sees the village now, the community of friends and family that surround them.

“Please,” he whispers, but he knows it’s futile. He’s there but not there, she’s in his head but leaving, and all too quickly Rufus dissolves into the black.

 

<<>>

 

The quaint, green front door explodes into shards. Rufus has no time for locks—the house stinks of rotten magic, of hell, of _pain._ A scent he’s become too accustomed to over the last few years. The cursework is expert. When Rufus raises his wand to cast a dim glow around the room, the remnants of green sparks glimmer in the air.

His chest hammers with a thudding pulse.

“Alice!”

The house is eerily still, despite the magic permeating the air. Light doesn’t live here anymore.

“Frank!”

Rufus’ hoarse voice fades into the walls. They must be close. They must. Behind him, Shacklebolt steps over the threshold. Even here, he exudes a calmness that Rufus feels through the back of his cloak.

“I will check this floor,” Shacklebolt says. Rufus nods once and moves towards the staircase. It creaks with every step. Even that noise doesn’t fill the overwhelming sense of quietness.

Or dread.

“Frank?” Rufus doesn’t care if Death Eaters lie in wait. He strains his ears, listening for anything that could give away their location but all he hears is Shacklebolt’s boots as he searches the ground floor. Rufus raises his wand, searches the area.

Two bloodied, delicate feet illuminate with the cold light of his wand.

Rufus sprints, mind running with a constant stream of ‘ _no, no, no, no…’_

Dust flies up the second his knees scrape the floor. He scoops her pale, withered body into his arms. “Alice?”

In the dull glow of his wand-light, Alice blinks. _Alive, oh you’re alive._

But her eyes focus on nothing. Rufus swears beneath his breath, cradles her closer. “Alice… _listen to me._ It’s Scrimgeour. It’s Rufus. Alice. _Alice._ ”

Her round face shows no recognition—limbs are weak and lifeless as he holds her, clinging on to her in desperation.

“Scrimgeour!” Shacklebolt’s cry sounds from the stairs.

“In here!”

Shacklebolt’s with him in seconds, wand raised high to the room. Scorch marks on the walls, the bed’s moved three feet away from the wall. On the opposite side, the unmistakable silhouette of Frank’s body lies face down on the wooden floor.

Rufus’ world spins as Shacklebolt moves towards the bed. Even when more Aurors arrive to assist, Rufus stays holding Alice in his arms.

It’s too late. They’re all too late.

Despite the blood, Alice bears no physical mark but Rufus can smell _her_. There’ll be no coming back from the place Alice has gone; no years of her beaming smiles around the Ministry, no more glimpses of her holding hands with Frank in the hallways.

They were in love. They had a _son._

“Where’s the boy?” Rufus’ gutteral bark ricochets about the room.

“Accounted for.” One of the aurors gives him a sure nod. “With his grandparents.”

A small mercy.

But he would afford her none.

 

_I was a heavy heart to carry_

_My feet dragged across the ground_

_And he took me to the river_

_Where he slowly let me drown_

 

Bellatrix’s eyes don’t look like hers.

They stand mere feet away from each other, wands raised. She doesn’t attack but neither does he.

The old pattern stops them from delivering the final curse.

Her husband lies unconscious as thunder roars above. Rufus isn’t sure how they got to the place on the cliffs, but he’s taken down two. Shacklebolt will be here any second.

It’s just them.

“Did you like my gift?” Bellatrix’s grin is twisted, poison in her veins fuelling the words. Their hair hangs wet across their faces. Whatever he felt for her before, a hollow ache has taken its place.

He says nothing. Words give her ideas. He takes a step forwards.

“Who is the betrayer now, Rufus? Which one of us is the killer in the crowd?”

He betrayed the Longbottoms. He lay there, mind open, willing, and gave them away because this _woman -_ the siren from a place even Voldemort wouldn’t crawl - used him.

Again.

Not even rage fills his belly. Shame, remorse, and atonement raises his wand to face her.

There’s a flicker of the woman he knew before he strikes.

 

<<>>

 

There’s so many people Rufus didn’t expect it. They wear black, their stoic presence half for celebration and half mourning. While the ceremony is conducted with a jovial air, there’s a sombreness beneath: the war might be over, but it left its mark buried deep in the bones of everyone here.

And Rufus is getting a promotion for it.

“And lastly,” says the Minister. She’s plastered a tiny smile on her face throughout the entire proceedings. “We would not have made the leaps and bounds in our convictions had it not been for the valour, determination and skill of one Rufus Scrimgeour, whose tracking and eventual capture of the Lestrange trio put an end to such torment of our allies.”

Applause erupts from the crowd, but Rufus shies away. No matter his attempts, every person here still lost friends—Alice and Frank don’t even recognise their own son. The boy will grow up without parents.

_I’m responsible._

The words echo around his head even as the Minister steps in front of him. Rufus sees it now—the edge of the Minister’s mouth twitches with the effort of concealing the grief beneath the occasion.

“Well done, lad,” she murmurs, and pins the golden badge upon Rufus’ lapel. To the crowd, the Minister announces—“It is my honour to appoint our new Head of the Auror Office.”

The applause comes faster. A few friends send him knowing winks and nods. Any one of them could stand here. Any one of them could be a better Head of the Auror Office.

But something inside Rufus stirs: its reared its ugly head before and now it sings, taunting him to follow its direction. From this position, Rufus can cast his net wide. He can follow its threads to anywhere, anyone, and take every single Death Eater down.

They’ll never match her-nobody ever will-but eventually he’ll atone for his misdeeds.

He’ll atone for loving her.

<<>>

 

All his work has been undone by a teenager with a scar.

Azkaban in ruins. Fudge dead. Dumbledore dead. Voldemort circling his hounds and _her._

In the wild.

“If you want to get him on side, you need to _listen_ to him,” says a woman with a stern brow. She leans against the table, arms wide, staring at the map beneath her. Word reached her faster than usual about Rufus’ small - indiscretion. “I understand you want to show a united front but we’re weak and the world knows it. Listen to him, Scrimgeour. Potter’s always got a sense about these things.”

“Potter’s an idiot.” Perhaps it wouldn’t win him any favours for folks to hear him talk ill of the boy who lived, but Rufus doesn’t really care for what people think any more. They let a dark wizard ride. They let him gain power.

And now Rufus has to clear up the mess they made.

It’s clear by the fact the woman shoots him an angry glare that he’s hit her bad side, so he sighs. “I’ve tried three times. He’s not educated enough in the dark arts to know…” Another, heavier glare that resembles too much of her aunt.  Rufus concedes with a nod. Being a diplomat’s exhausting. “I’ll talk to him.”

This appeases her, and she runs a hand through her purple hair. A moving target if ever he saw one. With a rap of her knuckles, she seems to decide the course of action for herself and strolls off with a firm “Maybe don’t throw your wand this time, Minister.”

A stupid title he’s risen to by fluke, of course. He doesn’t mind the target on _his_ back. At least he deserves it. But the Ministry is all but a thin piece of string in Rufus’ grasp and he can’t pull all the threads at once. Aurors are going missing day after day, witches and wizards he considers family in place of his own.

It’s not safe in the halls. It’s not safe anywhere.

It falls to him to protect his corner of the Wizarding World.

When he leaves the office, it’s unnaturally dark. Lamplight is it its lowest. He doesn’t bother with his wand. The dark never haunts him, and so he strides with purpose, though slower than usual, towards the lift.

The bell’s clang echoes through the floor’s main atrium. The place may as well be deserted. With a sigh he steps inside, running over the right words to say to the Boy Whose Elevated View Of Himself Will Get Him Killed, when his spine tingles.

He knows that perfume. She’s not there but it lingers.

A thick arm wraps around his neck as the doors close.

“Going up?”

 

<<>>

 

Rabastan’s stronger than he looks. Rufus still remembers the day they met, and nothing much has changed about the man now apart from his nose has been broken a few more times. Now they stare at each other, Rufus’ knees scuffled and bloody on the floor, his suit shredded and worn. Sweat coats the material, blood drips from his head.

Voldemort likes to leave a mark.

The man whom Bellatrix sold her soul to floats before him, dramatics and dreadfulness combined into a thick, dark aura. The Lord’s voice isn’t quite the stuff of nightmares - Rufus has heard worse - but the _words…_

“Where is Potter?”

Over and over and over again, shoving into his mind, stirring around. He’s used up the one and only time that trick would work, back when his _Trix_ lured it out of Rufus in sleep. Legilimens no longer haunts Rufus’ mind.

Voldemort’s tried of course, but his expectations of the newest Minister have far been succeeded. Rufus cuts his gaze to Bellatrix. A glimmer like remorse crosses behind her eyes, but in a moment it’s gone. She raises her chin, as if to say _I told you I’d weigh you down._

Now he’s not sure whether it was a promise or a warning—either would fit the way she looks at him. Rufus raises himself to kneel, facing the only wizard who bested him—

And Voldemort.

The dark wizard raises his wand.

“For the last time,” Voldemort utters with a hiss. He aims the wand at Rufus’ temple. “Where is Potter?”

_For the last time._

Voldemort won’t let him live whether he rats out Potter or not. His last moments are to be stolen in his room, weak lamplight cast over the cabin’s walls, in the presence of three Death Eaters he put away. Rufus allows himself to drink in the image of Bellatrix: so much has changed. Time slips and he remembers her as she was—when her hair was soft, unbroken, the strands cascading down her back in the morning light. When she laughed freely, without malice darkening her features. When her skin was unmarked and her face unlined by the harshness of years Azkaban.

Years he’d sentenced her to. Years she deserved.

Was the devil in her always there? He knew it must have been. And still he’d fallen in love with her.

What did that make him?

“For the last time,” Rufus says. He finally tears his eyes from the woman in the corner. She shifts at the change of energy in the air as Rufus stares Voldemort down. “Stick your wand up your…”

Voldemort roars. Bellatrix gasps. A peace settles into his bones.

All Rufus sees before the darkness is a flash of green.

 

_This will be my last confession_

_"I love you" never felt like any blessing_

_Whispering like it's a secret_

_Only to condemn the one who hears it_

_With a heavy heart_

 

She remembers.

She remembers every time he said it with his eyes, with his actions, with his mouth, without ever even having to say the words. The weight deepened with every moment they stole, every forbidden encounter.

As his body lies prone on the floor her knees threaten to buckle: it takes all her strength to stand, her hand braced against the wall beside her. She broke him years ago, but now he’s shattered.

His eyes stare at nothing, when they used to hold so much.

“Burn it.”

There’s triumph in that tone. The voice belongs to someone she loves, someone she _respects_. The person who saved her from hell, not the person who put her in it.

_Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid._

She stands tall. Ice black clouds the empty space he’s left within her, until grief is forced beyond her realm of knowledge.

She doesn’t feel heavy any more.

 


End file.
